


Evelyn "Sig" Sargo

by moodymarshmallow



Series: Always Cloudy One-Shots and Side-Stories [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:45:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sig tells the story of how she died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evelyn "Sig" Sargo

It doesn’t take long to figure out that the scene is always suitably dramatic when someone important dies in a movie. There’s driving rain and sad string music, as if an orchestra was suddenly trucked in just to get the mood right. The camera pans back and the viewer can see loved ones screaming in slow motion; the harried wife is being held back by strong men to spare her the agony of seeing her husband in such a state, the child is sobbing for their parent. This is how the audience knows that it’s a tragedy.

That is the glamorized version of death that I grew up with, and it gave me the misconception that the ending of a life will always be meaningful. I watched the chocolate syrup turned black blood swirling down the drain in  _Psycho_ , and I saw the swimmer get pulled under in  _Jaws_. I wondered who would find me, how my family would take it, and as I stared into the sky two blocks away from work, I couldn’t figure out how in the world it was sunny on the day I was going to die.    


That morning I woke up feeling like I’d fallen down a flight of stairs, but I blamed it on the afternoon shift and the bar crawling that followed. Maybe I’m getting too old to keep up with college girls, but I still get carded, and this is the first time I’d ever felt like I’d aged a day, much less thirteen years, past twenty-one. I called it a hangover and got on with my life—it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve had one of those. Two aspirin, a good breakfast, and I figured I’d get through the day just like I had in the past. I felt like calling up my Mamma and asking her if she remembered the first time I had a hangover, but I know she does. She has pictures of my sorry ass in bed, covers pulled over my head, half falling out of it, looking as miserable as I ever have. Mamma’s always been strange that way.   


I’d never had a hangover like that though, and if I hadn’t just started at the café I would have called in sick. But there was that whole incident where I slapped my boss—he had it coming; getting all cute with me without asking—and even if he did appreciate my moxie, I wanted to get back into his good graces. He’s not a bad guy, after all, just interested in everything with two legs. Once he understood my position on dating within the workplace (that is to say, it’s a big no-no) we had an accord and it never happened again. Since I was the only one working the afternoon shift, I didn’t want to leave him without help, especially not for a hangover. I picked myself up and got ready—never let it be said that Sig doesn’t try.   


I’m a classic homebody; I put down roots as soon as I was born, and nothing has convinced me that there’s a better place to be than Portland, Oregon. I’ve had a dozen friends flitter off to California for work, for whatever, and they all send me lovely “wish you were here” postcards with the Golden Gate bridge on them.

Sometimes they come back, sometimes they don’t, but they’ve all got these stories about how I’m missing everything. I’m not missing a damn thing; I know these streets like I know my family. I’ve been a waitress, sometimes part time, sometimes full time, at half the restaurants and cafes out here. This state’s in my blood, and I can feel her pulse as I walk to work that day.   


That’s why I should have known that something was up. Her streets are my streets, I’m supposed to be comfortable on them, but every step left me weak and dizzy. Three blocks from home, Oregon turned traitor on me. She took the ground from under my feet and I fell in the middle of the crosswalk, staring up at the blue sky, feeling tightness in my chest.  


Maybe I should have moved to California, I thought, because if I couldn’t trust Oregon to treat me well, what could I trust? The ground was supposed to be under my feet, not under my back, and as the sky was blocked out I felt desolate. If I couldn’t even have the blue sky, what did I have?   


There were people above me, leaning over, asking me questions, and I kept saying that I was fine; I just needed to get to work. But the questions kept coming, and I let the answers tumble out like junk from an overstuffed closet. No, I wasn’t feeling well. Yes, my chest hurt. No, I didn’t think I could get up.   


No. I’d never had a heart attack before.   


I lost something then, some slippery shred of awareness, because when I entertained the thought that this could be a heart attack, there’s this shift in my memory, like an old 45’ skipping, stuttering, the singer’s voice cut up into jittering starts and stops.   


I remember very clearly thinking that I was going to die.   


The next thing I remember is the scent of sterile disinfectant and the hum of florescent lights. The hospital was so white, so clean, and I was so sympathetic to whoever was in charge of keeping it that way. Now that’s a terrible job, not like waiting tables. I have friends who would rather die than be seen waiting tables, but I never understood that. You get to meet people; you get to see how they really treat someone, and the good ones learn your name and say it with that fond familiarity that makes you a friend but still a stranger.   


I don’t like the way the people at the hospital say my name. It’s all “Evelyn Sargo,” and “Evelyn,” and “Miss Sargo,” and I’m angry at them for it. I want to tell them it’s Sig. That’s what it says on my name tag, because it’s easier to remember than Evelyn, and it’s unique, and spunky. All my friends call me Sig, and if you’re talking to me, you’re my friend. Only my family calls me Evelyn, and these men in white coats and green cotton weren’t my family.   


I remember the looks on their faces when my vision started to narrow, when the florescent lights started to dim, and I made a conscious decision not to answer them because I’m too damn tired for that.   


They tell me that’s when my heart stopped.   


Another thing the movies lie to you about is what it’s like to die. They say you’ll go down a tunnel, or you’ll ascend and look at your body lying there on the table. They say you’ll feel a sense of peace and contentment if you’ve had a good life, and fear if you’ve been a terrible person. None of that happened. I was, then I wasn’t, then I was again, opening my eyes slowly to a drop ceiling and the kind of exhaustion I’ve never experienced. 

Everyone wants to know what it was like, how it felt, and if it hurt. I tell them it’s like anesthesia. You close your eyes, then you open them, and there’s nothing in between. Dying is becoming nothing, and coming back is becoming something again. It’s no more dramatic than that; there were no sobbing relatives, and no sad violins. 

I remember being the most upset about the lack of violins.   


They had to cut me open and replace one of the valves in my heart. It just up and stopped working, they said, and I wonder why it couldn’t have given me a two week notice so I could have planned this shit out. They said it was a one in a million chance for that to happen, that they never see a valve just die in a woman as young and healthy as I am, but they gave me the list of precautions to take anyway.   


I don’t talk about the rehab, the pain, or the desolate madness of lying in a hospital bed contemplating your own mortality. Maybe someday, but right now I’m here to tell the shocking part and smile at the man sitting on the stool next to me, sipping his beer slow and contemplative. He’s still looking at the scar between my breasts and I smile even wider—if I didn’t want people to see it, I would cover it up. It’s my badge of honor, my “Sig survived” scar, and it gave me my story. Every waitress needs a good repertoire of stories for when it’s slow and your regulars are there, wanting to be friends at least for as long as they’re in your restaurant.   


The man who asked me about the scar has lost interest, and we both recognize that, but he’s going to pretend that it’s not because I’ve done something that scares him. I’m not supposed to own it; I’m not supposed to flirt with death the way I flirt with guys at bars, like I’m ready to take it home with me. But he doesn’t understand, and someday I’ll find someone that gets that the only time you can really get over something is when you learn to love it.   


He leaves, and he’s replaced by another man, and when his eyes flicker down to look at the scar on my chest, I smile.  


“Do you want to hear about the time I died?”


End file.
